The Company

  An appreciative smile worked its way onto Reagan’s tanned features. “I remember that. Made quite a splash at the time.”

  There were two quick raps on the door, then Baker came in and stepped aside and three men walked into the room. Reagan sprang to his feet and came around the side of the desk to meet them half way. Grinning, he pumped Casey’s hand. “Bill, how are you?” Without waiting for a response, he shook hands with Casey’s deputy director, Elliott Ebbitt. “Ebby, glad to see you again,” he said. The President turned to the DD/O, Jack McAuliffe and gripped his hand in both of his. “So you’re the famous Jack McAuliffe I’ve, uh, heard so much about—your reputation precedes you. You’re the one who went ashore with the Cuban exiles at the Bay of Pigs.”

  “I’m flattered you remember that, Mr. President—“

  “Americans don’t forget their heroes. At least this American doesn’t.” He pulled Jack toward the couch and gestured for everyone to sit down. The aides hovered behind the President.

  “Can I offer you boys something to wet your whistles?”

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. President, we’re in a bit of a time bind,” Casey said.

  Reagan said to Jack, “I was briefed about the toe with the birthmark—you must be pretty distressed.”

  “Distressed is not the word, Mr. President,” Jack said. “This Ibrahim fellow is threatening to cut off more of his toes unless the negotiations—” He couldn’t continue.

  Reagan’s eyes narrowed in sincere commiseration. “Any father in your situation would be worried sick.”

  “Mr. President,” Bill Casey said, “we’ve come over because there have been new developments in the hostage situation.”

  Reagan turned his gaze on Casey and stared at him in total concentration.

  “Our KH-11 has come up with—“

  The President leaned back toward an aide, who bent down and whispered in his ear, “Sir, KH-11 is a photo reconnaissance satellite.”

  “Our KH-11 has come up with some dazzling intelligence,” Casey said. “You’ll remember, Mr. President, that the Russians and everyone else fell for the disinformation we put out—they think the KH-11 is a signals platform. As they don’t suspect there are cameras on board, they don’t camouflage military installations or close missile silo doors when the satellite passes overhead. The KH-11 has an advanced radar system to provide an all-weather and day-night look-down capability—using computers, our people are able to enhance the radar signals and create photographs. Thanks to this we’ve been able to track the Ibrahim kidnappers across Afghanistan. We’ve traced them to a mountain fortress two hundred and twenty miles inside Afghanistan.” Casey pulled an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph from a folder and handed it to Reagan. “We even have a daytime shot of the Shaath woman and Jack’s son, Anthony, walking inside the compound.”

  The President studied the photograph. “I can make out the two figures but how can you, uh, tell who they are.”

  “We determined that one is a woman by her chest. And as neither is dressed the way the tribesmen dress, we concluded that they are Westerners.”

  Reagan handed the photograph back. “I see.”

  Ebby said, “Mr. President, we have independent confirmation that Anthony McAuliffe and Maria Shaath are, in fact, being held in Ibrahim’s stronghold. We arranged for our Israeli friends to send in an agent masquerading as a gunrunner. This happened four days ago. The Mossad’s report reached us this morning. The gunrunner saw the two prisoners with his own eyes and subsequently picked out the young McAuliffe and Maria Shaath from a group of photographs that we faxed to the Israelis.”

  “While this was going on, Mr. President,” Casey said, “we’ve been buying time by negotiating with this fellow Ibrahim by fax. As you know, he originally wanted a hundred and fifty Stinger ground-to-air missiles. In the course of the negotiations we’ve managed to talk him down to fifty—“

  Reagan was shaking his head in disagreement. “I don’t see why you’re being so stingy,” he said. “Far as I’m concerned Afghanistan’s the right war at the right time. I told Jim Baker here that the, uh, money you boys allocated to the freedom fighters was peanuts.” The President repeated the word “peanuts.” The others in the room dared not look at each other. Reagan slapped a knee. “By gosh, there were fifty-eight thousand Americans killed in Vietnam. Afghanistan is payback time.”

  The National Security Advisor coughed into a palm and Reagan looked up at him. “Mr. President, you decided some time ago that giving Stingers to the Islamic fundamentalists could backfire on us, in the sense that after the Russians leave Afghanistan the fundamentalists could turn the Stingers on the West. Perhaps you would like to review this policy—“

  “Well, I just, uh, hate to see the gall darn Commies squirm off the hook, and so forth.”

  “It’s a piece of policy I could never understand,” Casey said, hoping to sway the President. He avoided looking at Baker, whom he suspected of bad-mouthing him behind his back; the two were barely on speaking terms. “Putting Stingers into the hands of the mujaheddin,” Casey added, “would tilt the scales against the Russians—“

  “We could have the National Security shop take another look at the Stinger question,” Baker told the President. “But I don’t see what’s changed since you made your determination that it was too risky.”

  “We’re not afraid of taking risks,” Reagan said, searching for a formulation that would accommodate everyone’s point of view. “On the other hand, we certainly wouldn’t want the Islamists turning the Stingers on us when this war is, uh, over.”

  Baker, who organized Reagan’s schedule and controlled what paperwork reached his desk, took his cue from the last thing the President said. “Until the President changes his mind,” he instructed the aides, “we’ll leave the Stinger decision stand.”

  Casey shrugged; another skirmish lost in the behind-the-scenes infighting that went on around the disengaged President. “Now that we know where the hostages are,” Casey mumbled, “we’d like to explore with you the possibility of organizing a commando-style raid to free them.”

  Jack said earnestly, “What we have in mind, Mr. President, is to farm out the operation to the Israelis. We’ve already sounded out the Mossad’s deputy director, Ezra Ben Ezra, the one they call the Rabbi—“

  Reagan looked bemused. “That’s a good one—a Rabbi being deputy director of the Mossad!”

  “The Israelis,” Jack rushed on, “have an elite unit known as the Sayeret Matkal—it was this unit that pulled off the Entebbe raid, Mr. President.”

  “I’m, uh, familiar with the Entebbe raid,” Reagan said.

  “The game plan,” Ebby said, “is for us to agree to exchange the hostages for fifty Stingers. Then a dozen or so members of this Israeli unit—Jews who were born in Arab countries and look like Arabs—“

  “And speak perfect Arabic,” Jack put in.

  “The Sayeret Matkal team,” Ebby continued, “would go in with a string of pack animals carrying crates filled with Stingers that have been modified to make them unworkable. Once they’re inside Ibrahim’s compound—“

  Baker interrupted. “What’s in it for the Israelis?”

  Casey talked past Reagan to Baker. “They’re willing to lend a helping hand in exchange for access to KH-11 photos of their Middle East neighbors.”

  The aides studied the patterns in the carpet underfoot. Baker kept nodding. Clark chewed pensively on the inside of his cheek. Their underlings were waiting to see which way the wind would blow. Finally the President said, very carefully, “Well, it, uh, sounds interesting to me, boys.”

  Later, waiting outside number 716 Jackson Place for the Company car to pick them up, Jack turned on Casey. “Jesus, Bill, we came away without an answer.”

  Casey smiled knowingly. “We got an answer.”

  Ebby said, “If we got an answer it went over my head.”

  “We all heard him say the idea was interesting, didn’t we? That was his way
of saying okay.”

  Ebby could only shake his head. “It’s a hell of a way to run a government!”

  Aida Tannenbaum snatched the phone off the hook after the first ring.

  “Yes?”

  When no one responded, Aida became anxious. In her heart she knew who was breathing into the phone on the other end of the line. “Is that you, Gene?” she whispered, hoping to lure his voice through the miles of wire and into her ear. “If it is, please, please say so.”

  “It’s me,” Eugene finally said. His voice was strained; he obviously felt uneasy. “I promised I’d call back—“

  “Dear child,” Aida said, “I knew you would.”

  “It violates basic tradecraft but I’ll do it—I will meet you for a drink, if you like.”

  “Where?” she asked impatiently. “When?”

  “How about the bar of the Barbizon, on Wyoming off Connecticut? At eleven if that’s not too late for you.”

  “The Barbizon at eleven,” she said. “You don’t mind if I bring Silvester?”

  Eugene’s voice turned hard. “If you are with anyone I won’t show up.”

  “Dear, dear Gene, Silvester is a cat.”

  He laughed uneasily. “I didn’t understand…sure, bring Silvester if you want to. It’ll be a recognition signal—I’ll look for a woman with a cat. You look for an overweight middle-aged man with hair the color of sand carrying a copy of Time under his left arm—“

  “Even without the magazine I would know you immediately. Until tonight, then?”

  “Until tonight.”

  Eugene made his way across the half-empty lounge to the bird-like woman sitting next to a small table at the back. She was wearing clothing that he’d seen in old black-and-white motion pictures: a square hat was planted atop her silvery hair and a black lace veil fell from it over her eyes, a paisley form-fitting jacket with padded shoulders hugged her delicate rib cage, a heavy black satin skirt plunged to the tops of sturdy winter walking shoes. Her eyes were watering, whether from age or emotion he couldn’t tell. A wicker shopping basket containing a ratty old cat with patches of pink skin where his hair had fallen out was set on the chair next to her.

  “I don’t even know your name,” Eugene said, looking down at the woman.

  “I know yours, dear Eugene.”

  A skeletal hand encased in a white lace glove floated up to him. Eugene took hold of it and, recalling the etiquette lessons his mother had given him when he was twelve years old, bent from the waist and brushed the back of her hand with his lips. He removed his overcoat and threw it across the back of a chair and settled onto a seat across from her.

  “I will have a daiquiri,” the woman informed him. “I had one immediately after I arrived in America in 1946 in a very elegant cocktail lounge the name of which has since slipped my mind.”

  Eugene signaled to the waiter and ordered a daiquiri and a double cognac. The old woman appeared to sway on her seat, then steadied herself by gripping the edge of the table. “My name,” she said, “is Aida Tannenbaum.”

  “It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Eugene told her, and he meant every word. He knew of few people who had given as much to the cause.

  The waiter set two drinks on the table and tucked a check upside down under an ashtray. Eugene said, “So this is Silvester.”

  Aida lifted the veil with one gloved hand and sipped the daiquiri. She swallowed and winced and shuddered. “Oh, dear, I don’t remember the daiquiri being so strong. Yes, this is Silvester. Silvester, say hello to a comrade-in-arms, Eugene.” She swayed toward Eugene and lowered her voice. “I was instructed to live alone and never told anyone about Silvester. I found him on the fire escape of an apartment I rented in the early 1970s. You don’t think they would mind, do you?”

  “No. I’m sure it’s all right.”

  She seemed relieved. “Tell me about yourself, Eugene. How did an American—I can tell from your accent that you are from the East Coast; from New York in all probability—how did you become involved in the struggle…”

  “I was led to believe that I could contribute to the fight to defend the genius and generosity of the human spirit.”

  “We are doing exactly that, dear child. Of course I don’t know what it is that you do with the messages I pass on to you, but you are a Socialist warrior on the front line.”

  “So are you, Aida Tannenbaum.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes clouded over. “Yes. Though I will admit to you I am fatigued, Eugene. I have been fighting on one or another front line as far back as I can remember. Before the war, there were some who believed that only the creation of a Zionist state in Palestine could shield the Jews, but I was in the other camp—I believed that the spread of Socialism would eradicate anti-Semitism and protect the Jews, and I joined the struggle led by the illustrious Joseph Stalin. If I were a religious person, which I am not, I would certainly think of him as a saint. During the war I fought against the Fascists. After the war—” She sipped the daiquiri and shuddered again as the alcohol burned her throat. “After the war I was mystified to find myself still alive. In order to make what life I had left worth living, I joined the ranks of those battling alienation and capitalism. I dedicated the fight to the memory of my son, assassinated by the Nazis. His name was Alfred. Alfred Tannenbaum, aged seven at the time of his murder. Of course I don’t believe there is a word of truth in the things they have said about Stalin since—I am absolutely certain it is all capitalist propaganda.”

  Three young men in three-piece suits and a young woman, all slightly inebriated, entered the lounge. They argued over whether to sit at the bar or a table. The bar won. Sliding onto stools, depositing their attaché cases on the floor, they summoned the bartender and loudly ordered drinks. At the small table Eugene inspected the newcomers, then turned back to Aida. “You are what Americans would call an unsung heroine. The very few people who know what you do appreciate you.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Aida dabbed a tear away from the corner of an eye with the paper napkin. “I have rented a furnished apartment at number forty-seven Corcoran Street off New Hampshire, not far from Johns Hopkins University. I am moving there tomorrow. I prefer to live in buildings with college students—they are always very kind to Silvester. And they often run errands for me when I am too nauseous or too dizzy to go out in the street.” She managed a tight-lipped smile. “Perhaps we could meet again from time to time.”

  “This was probably a bad idea. We must not take the risk again.”

  “If they haven’t found us out during all these years I doubt they will do it now,” she said.

  “Still—“

  “Once every six months, perhaps? Once a year even?” Aida sighed. “What we do, the way we do it, is terribly lonely.”

  Eugene smiled back at her. “At least you have Silvester.”

  “And you, dear child. Whom do you have?” When he didn’t answer she reached across the table and rested her fingers on the back of his hand. She was so frail, her hand so light, he had to look down to be sure she was touching him. She pulled back her hand and, opening a small snap purse, took out a minuscule ballpoint pen and scratched a phone number on the inside of a Barbizon Terrace matchbook. “If you change your mind before—” She laughed softly. “If you change your heart before our friends broadcast a new lottery number you can reach me at this number.”

  Outside, a cold wind was seeping in off the Tidal Basin. Aida was wearing a cloth coat with an imitation fur collar. Eugene offered to flag down a taxi for her but she said she preferred to walk home. She tucked the thick piece of cloth in the basket around Silvester and buttoned the top button of her overcoat. Eugene held out his hand. Ignoring it, she reached up and placed her fingers on the back of his neck and, with a lover’s gesture perfected fifty years before, gently pulled his head down and kissed him on the lips. Spinning quickly away, she walked off into the night.

  As soon as she was out of sight Eugene pulled the matchbook from his pock
et and ripped it so that the phone number was torn in half. He dropped half of the matchbook in the gutter and the other half in a garbage pail he found two blocks up the street.

  He would never again set eyes on Aida Tannenbaum.

  Casey, bored to tears, was auditing a high-level symposium that had been convened to reconcile the differences between CIA forecasts for the Soviet Union and those from a “B” team panel of outside economists. CIA specialists maintained that Soviet per capita income was on a par with Britain’s; the “B” team had calculated that it was roughly equal to Mexico’s. To make matters more complicated, the “B” team insisted that the Company’s projections of Soviet strategic forces was also on the high side. The argument raged back and forth across the table as economists on both sides of the divide dredged up statistics to support their conclusions. Swallowing each yawn as it bubbled up from the depths of his weary soul, Casey gazed listlessly out the window. Darkness had fallen and the lights that illuminated the security fence around Langley were flickering on. Casey knew what the number crunchers didn’t: that the CIA had in fact detected signs of a slowdown in the Soviet economy but continued to overstate its size and the growth rate to appease Reagan’s people, who grew livid when anyone raised the possibility that the Soviet economy and Soviet military spending were flattening out. Team players, so the Reagan people contended, didn’t challenge the logic behind the President’s decision to build the B-1 bomber or recommission two World War II battleships and budget for a 600-ship navy: military-wise, the Soviet Union was nipping at our heels and we had to throw immense amounts of money at the problem to stay ahead. Period. End of discussion.